I have too many hobbies

Today you had been mostly alone in the office, assembling some research March had brought you, a list of names and addresses he needs to make sense of later. The phone has been quiet, and you’re just putting things in a sensible order, which leaves your mind free to wander, and it goes to the only real potential problem with your job. And it’s not a real problem, exactly. Or, it won’t be once you solve the dilemma.

You’re pretty sure they both have crushes on you.

And you aren’t exactly sure what to do about it.

But now Healy comes in grumbling, and you look up, putting your concerns aside.

“You okay, boss?” you say.

“Great,” he snaps, then sighs. “Sorry,” he adds. He shucks his jacket and tries to put it on the coat rack, but it falls onto the floor in a blue leather heap. “Goddammit. Does nothing work right?” he demands, picking it up again.

“Yeah, you definitely sound great. What’s going on?” you ask, closing the folder.

“Can March not go two days without doing something to piss me off?” he demands, and his jacket falls on the floor again. “Fuck.”

“Okay, to be fair,” you say, coming around the desk to pick up his jacket, “this part’s not his fault.” You look in the jacket, and see the loop to hang it up is loose on one side, flapping uselessly. “The little fabric thingy to hang it up broke. Let me fix it. What did he do?”

“Does it matter?” he demands, as you put the jacket on your desk. “It’s always something, isn’t it? And no matter what I do I’ll never piss him off the same way. He’ll just whine about it and then forget five minutes later. Like a puppy.” He shakes his head. “Just once I’d like to get under his goddamn skin.”

You don’t say anything as you stand at your desk, getting out the little emergency sewing kit you keep there to reattach buttons and so on, and start stitching the loop inside his jacket.

“Just once,” he mutters, his voice a low little growl.

“There,” you say, and come back around to hang it up on the hook. “Good as new.”

And then you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you. And for a moment, his eyes are sharp. Hot.

“Mr. Healy?” you say.

He blinks, then clears his throat, and shakes his head. “Uh, yeah. Thanks. For fixing it.” He looks away. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m going to mine and March’s office. So. Yeah.” He turns to go into the back room.

“Mr. Healy,” you say then, and he looks back at you.

You think of how often they’ve each lingered at your desk to talk to you. How Healy always asks how you are each morning. How March has started to ask you about dinner plans a few times, then quickly changed the subject.

You think of the stain on Healy’s shirt, March’s bloody nose.

And maybe it’s stupid. But you think also of how he was watching you, just now.

And you cross from the coat rack to where he’s standing. You stretch up and lean in as if to kiss him, and you hear his breath catch.

But then you stop, inches from his lips. Your hands are on his chest, feeling the softness and his heartbeat under his Hawaiian shirt.

“What if I know how to get under his skin?” you ask, and your words brush against his lips.

He lets out one rough breath, and his hands find your waist. They flex there for a moment, once, twice, like he’s trying to decide something.

And then he pushes you back, and you think he might be pushing you away, except he follows. Suddenly he lifts you as easily as a doll, and your ass lands squarely on the desk, knocking aside your files and your neat message book that you keep by the phone.

His mouth is on yours, hard, demanding, except then he pulls back to look at you, a question in his eyes.

And you answer the question with another kiss, pulling him to you, making him gasp and then groan into your mouth. You can feel the rumble of his voice through his chest as he presses into you. His hands find the fly of your pants, fumbles for a moment, then yanks them down, catching your underwear along. You have to tilt a little awkwardly for him to take them off fully, and the zipper scrapes your thigh, and you moan. He lets them fall to the ground.

But his hands, for all the urgency, are gentler on your skin, sliding down your hips with a fluttering touch, then sliding back up along the sensitive insides of your thighs until he finds the place where they meet, and he slides his fingers against the hardness there. You close your eyes a moment.

“No,” he says then, his voice low, husky. “No. Don’t close your eyes.”

You open them again, as he pulls his hands away to open the fly of his own pants, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. You reach for him, touching him briefly and making him let out a hiss between his teeth before he pulls your hands away to rest on his belly. You push his shirt up, feeling the rough hair underneath, all that softness.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he says again,asking this time instead of demanding, and you do not. You don’t close them as he takes a step closer, using his bulk to part your knees further. You don’t close them as his hands grip your thighs, spreading them.

You don’t close your eyes as he pushes into you. Instead you watch his face. The grizzled beard framing his soft jaw, as his lips part to release a ragged breath. His own blue eyes, half-closing in pleasure, as his thick cock pushes into you, feeling how tight you are, how wet you are, as your heat closes in around him.

“Shit,” he says, breathlessly, as his hips thud into yours, shuddering because even now he’s trying to hold back, trying not to hurt you. But he’s there, hot and thick inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust to the stretch of him. You are so full, so impossibly full, and you can feel the thud of his heartbeat, can smell his clean sweat and the fragrance of March’s cigarettes clinging to his shirt.

And you don’t close your eyes as you look at him again, still half-sitting up. “Fuck me,” you say, voice wavering from the feeling of him. “Don’t hold back. Please.”

“Fuck,” he says, but he can’t resist, not any longer. And he draws back and starts to move, fast and hard, his cock stroking every inch inside of you, places you didn’t even know could be touched. His fingers sink into your hips, and you can feel the strength of his hands—hands that can hurt and kill and crush, but now just keep you anchored to him, to the desk, to the world while he pistons his hips, slamming into you again, again.

You feel him moving, but then his thumb slides between the two of you, finding your clit, clumsy at first, then stroking it easily until you let out a thin, pleading sound. And now you can’t keep your eyes open. You close them against this onslaught of sensation, against the feeling of him pounding in you, his thumb rubbing against you on and on, relentlessly giving you what you need.

And when you come you cry out again, the sound ringing off the office walls, and you feel him let out a sound at the feeling of you clenching on him, again and again. You almost collapse back on the desk—but his hands are there again, trembling, helping you lay back a moment before he starts moving again.

You thought he’d been fucking you hard before. But now, with you on your back, he’s fast, almost brutal. He fucks like he’s trying to take something from you. He fucks like he’s angry, and he is, or he was, and you hear him let out another low sound that makes you shiver, his thrusts jerking you back on the desk, again and again. And you force your eyes open to look at him againt, bent over you, hands braced on either side of you on the desk, your legs spread wide around his waist. The sight of that alone is enough to make you come again, crying out, your hand slamming out and knocking the phone headset off its rotary base.

And that, the sound of your orgasm, the crash of the phone, is enough for him. He comes with a choked noise, with your name on his lips. He comes slamming into you, spilling his heat deep inside of you.

He lets out a few breaths, bowed over you still, his big shoulders heaving. For a moment there is no sound but your shared breathing, and the faint hum of the dial tone somewhere near the floor.

And then he straightens up, pulling out of you.

“You okay?” he says, his voice thick and husky with spent need, and his hands come up to your face. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him. You reach up to touch his stubbled cheek. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he said. He clears his throat, then does up his fly, and goes to get your pants. “I…yeah.” He hands the pants out to you, and you take them.

You get off the desk to put them back on. He stands there, a little awkwardly.

“Do, uh, do you need help?” he asks uncertainly.

“No,” you say, “I’ve been putting pants on myself since I was four. I got this.”

He lets out an awkward laugh, but his hand still hovers in the air, reaching for you. “Listen,” he says, but stops. “Uh. Well. You’re okay? You’re okay.”

“I’m great,” you assure him, and then you come over to kiss his cheek. “I promise.”

“Right,” he says. He hesitates, lingering a little longer, then swallows, nods, and goes into the back office.

You tidy up the office. Hang up the phone and put it back, and find all your dropped papers. And then you go to sit down at your desk, a little disheveled maybe, but that’s all right.

The dilemma you’d worried about is long gone. Who knew all you needed to get things started was an easy revenge fuck on your desk? That would set things in motion. And yes, sometime later you’ll need a nice talk with both of them, but you aren’t worried. Not now, anyway.

You hear footsteps outside the office, and the familiar sound of March lighting up a cigarette, and you smile to yourself. Because he’s going to come in, and see clear as day that Healy has already fucked you. And that’s all the encouragement he’ll need.

Yes. Everything is shaping up nicely.

The doorknob turns.